


breathe

by celosiaa



Series: JM + Emma [6]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, JM adopted a daughter, M/M, Panic Attacks, Sick Character, Trans Martin Blackwood, arabic speaking Jon, sorry everyone, yeah okay i'm venting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:22:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26983579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celosiaa/pseuds/celosiaa
Summary: It's all just too much, sometimes. Even for Martin.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: JM + Emma [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1909813
Comments: 21
Kudos: 119
Collections: Emmaverse AU





	breathe

**Author's Note:**

> "habibi" = my dear/darling/love

_You’re fine._

_You’re fine you’re fine you’re fine._

Unaware that these words had brushed past his lips rather than merely across his mind, Martin pushes open the door, head bowed, trying to _breathe, breathe, breathe._ When had his hands started shaking?

“—and so you see, when you’re thinking about the third declension, you’ve got to be more careful of the endings, because there’s a lot of exceptions to the typical rules.”

“I _know_ that, Baba. I’m not an idiot.”

“Emma, I would never—”

“You might as well have!”

Of course, Emma’s Latin exam is coming up tomorrow—he’d forgotten, _selfish, uncaring, terrible father—_

_Breathe._

_You’re fine._

“Emma, sit down—”

“No. I’m _done_.”

He feels the shock of her door slamming through his entire body, sending his mind whirling, his knees shaking as though he hadn’t eaten for days. Hadn’t he? No way to be sure, no way to trust himself with the way everything has been spinning so rapidly, so relentlessly he’s unsure he’ll ever know which way is up again.

_Breathe._

“Was that,” Jon begins, rubbing tensely over the migraine Martin knows has taken up residence there for the past few days. “Was that my fault?”

“I didn’t really—didn’t really see the whole thing, I’m sorry,” he replies, still not sitting with him at the table, can’t bear the thought of doing so.

If he sits down, it will all come out. And he can’t have that.

“I just—I don’t know what to do. She—she doesn’t really want my help, but she keeps asking for it anyway. I don’t know.”

“She does, she just can’t—erm, can’t—”

_Pay attention._

“Martin?”

And now Jon is looking back at him, eyes already starting up with flecks of green, scarred and gentle and beautiful face looking over his own with concern. A concern that should not be; should never be over him.

“Sorry, I—heh—”

_Smile smile put on a smile he loves it when you smile_

“—lost my train of thought. S-sorry.”

Of course Jon doesn’t believe it—he can’t hide it well enough, has never been good enough at that, can’t even put his own husband first. Not even when he’s upset and hurting, no. Martin does always seem to have a knack for poor timing.

“You don’t look well, habibi. You’re not—”

When had Jon risen from the table? Touched his arms? So close now, so worried over him, so—

**_“You like this, don’t you? You like making me upset.”_ **

**_All he can do is stare back at his mum, another cough on the horizon, doesn’t trust himself to open his mouth and not let it out. Can’t risk it. Not when he’s already worried her._ **

**_“Don’t you understand how this hurts me? You’re not even ill, are you? You just don’t want to help me. Don’t want to do your work. Selfish child. Can’t even make yourself useful.”_ **

_Selfish selfish selfish_

“Look at me, Martin.”

He’s on the sofa now, horrified by the sound of his own gasping breaths, too shallow, too crowded, too much. Kneeling before him now is that same lovely, gorgeous face—too trusting, much too trusting than someone like him deserves. For someone like him who feels loved when others worry.

_Am I making this up?_

_Have I really sunk that low?_

_Disgusting disgusting_

“Are you wearing your binder?” Jon asks, voice so soft around his panting breaths, thin and calloused hands running through his hair as he leans forward, begging his lungs to give him back control of his own body.

“N-no, I—”

_—couldn’t, it pressed in too much, made the coughing hurt—_

“—sorry.”

“Martin. Listen to me,” the love of his life says, in a voice allowing no argument, forcing Martin to meet his eyes. “You’re panicking, love. Please tell me what’s going on.”

_Whatever you say next, it’s a lie, and you know it._

“A-alright, alright, just—just nod, or shake your head then. Are you ill?”

Hating himself for every movement, for the relief he feels at the admission, he nods against Jon’s gentle hands. There’s a fever brewing there he knows is making everything worse. The knowledge does not take away its agony.

“Okay. That’s okay, love. Thank you for telling me,” Jon says, praising him like he deserves it. “Let me get some things, and we’ll get your fever down.”

“N-no, I—you don’t need—”

Clutching desperately at Jon’s shirt sleeve as he rises, Martin cannot even be sure what he is trying to say—only that he knows that Jon is worried, and that he’s caused it, and that it should never, ever be this way. Cannot be this way.

“Habibi,” Jon soothes, brows knitting together as he takes his hands in his own, wonderfully cold against his own burning skin while he sinks down onto the couch next to him. “Why are you crying?”

Though he had not noticed before, he now becomes aware of the cool strips of skin over his face where the tears had slipped down, evaporating quickly from the heat of it. And now his husband thumbs away the remnants, even as more fall unbidden, spilling over and over from his eyes as their strong guardian breaks down when he is most needed.

“Please tell me,” he begs all the same—and Martin wants nothing more than to be honest with him, for the rest of his life.

Will never break that carefully-built, wobbling faith that he believes Jon has in him. Will never risk letting that collapse at its very foundation.

“I can’t,” he whispers, forcing a wry smile onto his face, even as Jon’s frown deepens at his words. “Just—just take it from me, I can’t.”

“Are you sure?”

“Please.”

For a moment, there appears a spectre of the power Martin had once seen flow through him—eyes flashing green and piercing and bright as they bore into his own—but without that same hunger, without that drive for knowledge that very nearly tore him apart. Instead, he finds love—so powerful that it wants to know his mind for the sake of loving it, not for dissecting it. For a way to love him better.

And Martin can see the thoughts swirling in his mind nearly bring him to pieces.

“Martin, I—” he starts, choking around a lump in his throat that has formed around the self-hatred he could barely swallow.

“S-sorry, Jon, I shouldn’t have.”

“N-no, darling, please—”

Taking both of his hands in one of his own now, he places the other against Martin’s cheek, holding him together with the undue strength of his spindly fingers, with the wonderful coolness of the ring Martin had put on him all those years ago. Promises. They had made promises to each other. With love, not guilt; with freedom, not fear.

_Breathe._

_I can breathe._

“Let me. Let me look after you, my love.”

“You don’t need to.”

“I know. But let me.”


End file.
